


something like an unfinished dance

by tenkaede



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: But Only The Canonical Deaths!, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kaemaki Week 2020, Post-Canon, The Inherent Homoeroticism Of Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25144741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenkaede/pseuds/tenkaede
Summary: Harukawa dreams of the girl with the dress, dreams of the deceased.-for kaemaki week day 1: suit/dress
Relationships: Akamatsu Kaede/Harukawa Maki
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	something like an unfinished dance

Harukawa isn’t used to dreaming. 

Life in the (fabricated) orphanage and the (fabricated) cult with her (fabricated) memories recall dreaming very little before assassinhood, and even less afterwards. There’s no time for dreams and no time for nightmares and no time for sleep, even in the killing game, even afterwards. There’s never any time for dreams, really. 

Saihara and Yumeno dream, and Harukawa knows that they do, because they wake up sweating and shuddering and crying, and they beg for forgiveness through chittering teeth. They beg for forgiveness from people that will never be able to give it to them, and that’s how she knows that they dream. It’s never been her place to pry, and never been her place to ask what they dream of, especially when she already knows the answer. 

And maybe they dream of a liar with angel’s wings, or an earthbound astronaut, or the emotional hero. 

But it doesn’t matter, because when Harukawa dreams, it’s always about the girl in the purple dress. How ironic that she’s the one plagued with the visions of her while Saihara wakes apologizing to a different shade of purple, but it’s not as though she’s ever been able to have control over her own life. 

It always goes something like this: 

The scene is fogged and hazy. Harukawa never remembers what it is. A ballroom? A stage? A hallway? A school? A trial room? A masquerade? A piano? The colors melt and amalgamate into something unrecognizable, blurred, and ultimately irrelevant. The girl with the purple dress is the only constant among the mess of the dreamscape. 

The dress is frilled and the bow looks so ridiculous that Harukawa might have rolled her eyes, any other time. Maybe if she didn’t recognize who it is under the mask (purple, as if to match). Maybe if she didn’t take the outstretched hand every time it was extended to her (soft, as if to taunt). 

Harukawa never learned to dance. Never had the time, and never would have the time, but the girl with the golden hair laughs and leads her and dips her and guides her to nonexistent music. It’s nice. It’s suffocating. Physical affection is never something Harukawa got used to. Physical touch is something something she’s always craved. And sometimes, during their dance, the girl will ghost her cheeks with a thumb and she’ll wake up remembering how it felt. 

The scenario is so stupid that Harukawa wakes up trying to forget it. It’s never that simple. 

They dance, and they spin, and it’s impossible to remember it all. Dream-Harukawa never finds herself pulling away, and the girl with the mask grins at her with all the brilliance of a faux leader. Idly, Harukawa will remember the time she’d only thought of the girl as annoying (had admitted that there needed to be more people like her in the world). Idly, Harukawa will remember the time she’d found out the girl was a murderer (had discovered the truth of murder, fake-murder, attempted murder). 

The scene doesn’t change. The girl with the honey words spills her sweetness into the world. They don’t stop dancing. Harukawa wonders if the girl ever knew how to dance, or if the way their dance feels like puppetry is just another illusion from dreaming. 

And they talk, sometimes. 

The girl with the perfect lie brushes hair from Harukawa’s face, a gesture she’d flinch from in reality. “You’re doing really well, y’know?” And the response is something slow, something drawled, and she continues, “I wasn’t lying when I said that we should all be friends once we got out.” 

Sometimes, Harukawa gains enough control through their dance (slow? Fast? Spinning?) to follow the conversation enough to respond. “You can’t.” 

“You’d be surprised.” The girl with the bright eyes tilts her head. “Aren’t we friends, Harukawa-san?” 

“You’re annoying.” 

“And you never change.” 

“I change a lot--” A retort that sounds disgustingly childish once it leaves Harukawa’s mouth. “--and you’re stuck.” Stuck in death, she means to say. “You know that being friends with everyone was never realistic.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Something sickly drips from the girl’s head, and it’s something that Harukawa’s never been able to make sense of (as if dreams could make sense anyway). That wound wasn’t the one she was to bear, after all. “Still. I’m proud of you anyway.” 

“You’re going to insult me and then tell me that you’re proud of me.” Harukawa thinks that the girl’s face is much too close to her own, but never has the strength to push her away. “Smooth.” 

Sometimes, their conversations continue. Sometimes, the girl in the dress dips her in that dance she never learned, murmurs in her ear (and Harukawa can feel her lips ghost skin), adjusts her grip. Sometimes, Harukawa wakes up, and that’s just fine with her, because she has better things to do than dream about dead girls in dresses and dead girls long gone. 

Sometimes, the girl with the blood on her hands (isn’t that both of them?) tells her, “you should make sure to look after yourself, okay?” 

“You want me to look after Saihara.” It isn’t a question, but even dream-Harukawa can muster enough common sense to know that the girl couldn’t possibly want anything else. “Because you can’t.” 

“That’s true,” comes the confession, “but take care of yourself, too, okay?” 

Harukawa doesn’t remember if she’s ever said no, before. Doesn’t remember if she’s told the girl to go fuck herself, because she’s not Saihara’s babysitter, and she doesn’t need to listen to the ghost of a protagonist that Team Danganronpa killed ages ago. Doesn’t remember if she’s tried to deflect the question with something else, doesn’t remember if she’s ever stumbled in the dance, doesn’t know if she’s ever tried to glare at that mask. 

She says, “okay. For you.” Which is stupid, because Harukawa shouldn’t need to do anything for this girl, but she says it anyway, remembers it when she wakes up. Remembers the way that the girl reacts to it. 

“That’s good to hear,” the girl with the rope around her neck says, smiling in a way that’s too familiar for comfort. “I hope you do, Harukawa-san.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is kind of weird and only loosely follows the prompt but happy kaemaki week this is the only thing i got done unless i miraculously pull through for some of the other days


End file.
